


For I Am Sick With Love

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (no worms I swear), Body Worship, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Elias adoring Jon, Caretaking, Just...so soft, M/M, Mild Corruption content, Oral Sex, Sickfic, Touch-Starved, Very soft kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: The compulsion is so weak it’s barely there at all, just the instinctive snapping of an animal in pain. It still shudders pleasurably down Elias’ spine, a rush of warmth. Jon is breathing hard. He deserves a little truth, Elias thinks.“I’m here to take care of you,” he says. “And you’re going to let me. Afterwards you’ll sleep wonderfully, and you’ll feel much better tomorrow.”*Jon makes himself unwell. Elias takes care of him.





	For I Am Sick With Love

**Author's Note:**

> There was a conversation about Elias being super horny for Jon regardless of how much of a sweaty gross gremlin he is. It...inspired me.

_3 As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste._

_4 He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love._

_5 Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples; for I am sick with love._

From the Song Of Solomon

It’s Martin who brings it to his attention, knocking on Elias’ office door in the early afternoon with a worried expression. Martin coming to his office unsummoned is unusual enough to be surprising, enough for Elias to put his pen down and pay attention. 

“It’s Jon,” Martin explains. “He called in sick yesterday, and I told him to rest and let me know if he wasn’t going to be in today. Only he’s not here, and he hasn’t called in. And his phone is off. I wanted to go and check on him, but Jon’s - very private. I, uh, don’t know his address, so…?”

Elias closes his eyes for a moment, lets his thoughts drift to his Archivist. He can see Jon, huddled on his lumpy sofa, a heavy blanket pulled up around his chin. Elias sees him shivering through the blanket, the pallid, sickly sheen to his skin. Sees the book, as well, on Jon’s coffee table. A small volume that Elias doesn’t recognize, but which has an oily, unpleasant look to its leather binding. Jon’s been touching things he shouldn’t, then. Elias opens his eyes.

“Thank you Martin,” he says. “It’s good of you to be concerned. I’ll check in on Jon after work.”

“Oh, right, it’s just - ”

Martin hesitates and Elias can see the emotions warring behind his eyes. He’s fearful at the memory of his own imprisonment by Jane Prentiss. Anxious for Jon’s wellbeing. Jealous of his place as self-appointed caretaker. He opens his mouth to say that he’d meant to ask for Jon’s address for himself, actually. Elias smiles coolly at him.

“Was there anything else?”

“I - no.” Martin’s shoulders slump, defeated. “Just tell him I hope he feels better?”

“Of course, Martin.”

As soon as he’s certain Martin is back down in the Archives, Elias gets to his feet and gathers his belongings. No need to spread rumors or alarm among the archival staff. On a first glance the book didn’t appear anything truly dangerous, but Jon is still delicate. Far too human. Elias is irritated with himself for not noticing his Archivist’s condition sooner, but he’s been preoccupied recently, and Jon’s been keeping himself out of trouble for the most part. Even Elias’ attention slips from time to time.

He leaves the Institute at a brisk pace, takes a cab to Jon’s address and climbs the stairs to his flat. His first knock on the door goes unanswered, as does the second. After the third, he sighs and lets himself in. He doesn’t particularly want Jon to know that he has a key, but this seems rather the occasion to use it.

“Who’s there?” a voice calls weakly as he opens the door. Jon is sprawled out on the sofa, the blanket now tossed on the ground, his face flushed and his eyes glazed with fever.

“Only me, Jon,” Elias tells him, shutting the door.

“Elias? What are you doing here - how did you get in?”

“Martin was concerned,” says Elias. “You’re not answering your phone.”

Elias toes his shoes off and sets down his bag. Pads across the floor in his socks, removing his jacket as he goes. Jon’s flat is sparsely furnished. Not in a minimalist style, but in the manner of someone who simply pays little attention to their surroundings. The air is stale, as if the windows haven’t been opened in some time, and there’s a humid, sour tang in the air. A sickness smell.

“I called to tell him I was sick,” Jon grumbles, his voice strained. Elias crouches down in front of him. He looks fatigued, flushed and sweating, dark circles hollowing beneath his too bright eyes.

“That was yesterday.”

“I - no. What?” 

Elias picks up the book from the table and opens it. No name plate on this one, just the inscribed title: _For All Ills._ A curio that Leitner missed, then. He feels the Corruption squirming at his skin through its cover, but it is weak, ineffectual. Scarcely even likely to kill an ordinary human, and powerless to touch Elias. For Jon, its effect is something in between, unpleasant but not deadly. Elias lets himself feel a moment’s relief.

“It seems you’ve made yourself unwell, Jon.” 

Jon scowls, his mouth twisting down at the corners.

“I’m fine. Just a little - under the weather.”

Elias takes Jon’s wrist in his fingers. The skin is hot and tender, his pulse racing, too rapid. Jon makes an abortive move to pull away, but instead his fingers curl into his palm, his hand relaxing into Elias’ grasp.

“Where did that book come from?”

“The - what does it matter?” Jon huffs. “It’s not a Leitner.”

“No, but it would have been, if he’d ever found it. Did you find yourself _drawn_ to it, in some second hand bookshop? Unbearably curious about its contents?”

Jon doesn’t answer, but the sudden distress in his eyes tells the story. He knows Corruption with some intimacy. His mouth is drawn tight with fear, dragged down at the corners. Elias thinks about kissing it, the hot humidity of Jon’s breath, the sickness curling sweet and rancid on his tongue. He presses his free hand to the side of Jon’s neck, feeling out the pulse point. He’s burning up, the skin clammy. Jon stiffens at the touch, but doesn’t shake him off.

“What then, you’re here to gloat about my impending death?” The sarcasm is frail, the tremor in Jon’s voice far too audible.

“You’re not going to die, Jon.”

“Then _why are you here,_ Elias?”

The compulsion is so weak it’s barely there at all, just the instinctive snapping of an animal in pain. It still shudders pleasurably down Elias’ spine, a rush of warmth. Jon is breathing hard. He deserves a little truth, Elias thinks.

“I’m here to take care of you,” he says. “And you’re going to let me. Afterwards you’ll sleep wonderfully, and you’ll feel much better tomorrow.”

Elias feels Jon’s pulse jump under his fingertips, his hand trembling. 

“Are you _propositioning_ me?” he rasps, disbelieving. His eyes are wide and beautifully startled.

“In a way.”

“I’m not interested in having sex with you.” There’s a tight, anxious edge in Jon’s voice.

“I know,” Elias tells him fondly. “And I would never do anything to you that you didn’t choose.”

“Choosing’s not the same as _wanting,_ though. Is it, Elias?” 

“It isn't. But it _is_ what I'm asking you to do.” 

A shiver runs through Jon as the pads of Elias' fingers stroke over the delicate map of veins in his wrist. He shakes his head, as if he could deny the choice entirely. Tugs his hand out of Elias’ grip and starts to get to his feet. Stumbles. Elias takes his weight, one hand on Jon’s waist, the other against his chest. Jon leans heavily into him, his forehead falling against Elias’ shoulder. This close, Elias smells the febrile heat of him, heady and sharp. He stands up, pulling Jon with him. Turns his face into Jon’s damp hair, feels a tremor run through Jon’s body.

“You’re ill and exhausted,” Elias says.

“You don’t need to sound so pleased about it.”

Jon’s voice is rough, as if even the strain of standing is too much for him. Elias curves one hand around the back of his skull, digs fingers into his hair, scratching against his scalp. Jon releases his breath with a long, shuddering sigh.

“You need to rest,” Elias murmurs to him. “Let me take care of you.” Jon leans into him, the last of his strength gone, and his fierce defiance with it. He nods feebly against Elias’ shoulder.

“Okay,” he says. “All right.”

Elias holds Jon's weight as he guides him to the bedroom, and settles him onto the bed. He goes back to the kitchen and fetches a glass of water and a couple of the mild analgesics he brought with him. Presses them into Jon's hands when he returns.

"What are these?" Jon looks at them suspiciously.

"Paracetamol, Jon. Do you really think I'd drug you?"

"If it suited you," Jon scowls, but there's no bite to the words. He pops the pills in his mouth and drinks the water greedily, not lowering it from his lips until the glass is drained.

"There," Elias tells him. "That will help."

He takes the glass from Jon's unsteady hand and sets it on the bedside cabinet. Then he slides his hands under the t-shirt that's plastered to Jon's skin, and tugs it off over his head. Jon makes a startled sound but lets him do it, lifting his arms obediently. Elias presses a hand to Jon's narrow chest, the skin overheated, sweat sheened. His heart beats brittle and fierce against Elias’ palm.

“I don't - ” Jon stutters, caught between flinching from the intimacy of the touch and leaning into it.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Elias says gently, spreads his fingers wide against Jon's trembling chest. His Archivist, so fearful and longing. Elias feels a profound tenderness towards him.

Jon's eyes are dark and glassy, his pupils blown wide. Moisture is beading on his upper lip, at his temples. A droplet trickles slowly down the length of his neck, and Elias resists the urge to capture it with his tongue. Instead he pushes Jon’s hair away from his forehead, soft with sweat. Jon gives a shaky exhale.

He's beautiful this way, distressed and fever wracked. Like those Renaissance paintings, saints suffering so blissfully. Elias adores Jon's humanity as much as he does the purity of the Archivist, his fear and his rage, his determination and curiosity. It is what makes him endlessly fascinating, more than simply a vessel for their god. Part of Elias would love to keep him like this, pliant and trembling. He pushes the desire away, and gets to his feet.

“Take your trousers off,” he says. “We need to cool you down.”

He finds a plastic basin under the kitchen sink and fills it with cold water. Discovers a fresh washcloth in the bathroom, and when he returns Jon is sitting in his underwear. The expression on his face would be embarrassed if it wasn’t so tired and pained. Elias sets the basin down by the bed.

“Lie down,” he says, and begins rolling up his sleeves. Jon does, stretched out stiff as a board on the sheets.

“A cold shower would do just as well,” he mutters, and Elias smiles.

“I'm sure,” he says. “But you're letting me take care of you, remember?” He doesn’t say _you want me to care for you in this way,_ because Jon doesn’t always appreciate the truth. Instead he sits down on the edge of the bed. Soaks the washcloth and wrings it out, brings it up to sweep over Jon’s forehead and down each side of his face. Jon shivers a little and squeezes his eyes shut. His hands are fisted at his sides.

Elias gently strokes the cloth down over Jon’s neck and shoulders, feeling the heat from his skin soaking into the fabric. Wets the cloth again and continues down over Jon’s chest. Jon shivers again, his small, dark nipples tightening at the cold. Elias lets the fingers of his other hand descend the trellis of Jon’s ribs, and Jon makes a breathless sound. Elias looks up to find his eyes open once more, fever hazed and intent. A muscle in Jon’s abdomen twitches as the damp cloth slides over it, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth.

“You’re doing wonderfully, Jon,” Elias tells him, and sees a fresh flush of color appear high in Jon’s cheeks. His eyelids flutter a little. Elias is hit with a rush of want so forceful it stops his breath, and he has to pause for a moment before he continues.

He lifts Jon’s hand, presses a kiss to the delicate skin of his wrist as he strokes the cloth up Jon's arm. Jon’s pulse is racing beneath his lips. Elias meets his eyes, sees Jon’s tongue dart out to wet his lips, nervous and hesitant.

“What do you choose, Jon?” he asks, because that is the most important thing.

Jon stares at him for a long moment, indecision flickering across his face. He licks his lips again.

“Don’t stop.”

Elias feels weak at the words, the soft hitch in Jon's voice. His heart is pounding. He leans in, kisses the crook of Jon's elbow, the Corruption scar on his bicep. Leans closer to press his face right into the juncture of Jon's arm and torso, against the tangle of damp hair in the hollow of his armpit, the hot, sour tang of fever sweat. So desperately fragile and alive. Jon gasps, and Elias noses against him, inhaling deep, bites gently at the taut band of muscle connecting his arm to his chest.

Sweat is beading on Jon’s skin, a trickle running down over his clavicle. This time Elias does not resist, catches the wet salt on his tongue, mouthing against the trembling skin. Inhales the sharp febrile scent, Jon’s head tipping back, his throat working nervously. Elias closes his eyes for a moment, dizzy at the smell and the taste of him, the heat of his skin almost searing.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against Jon’s collarbone. “Every part of you.”

Jon moans. Elias mouths down the length of his torso, lapping at his taut nipples, treasuring each scar that ornaments his body, the marks of his Archivist’s knowing. The Corruption’s old wounds are pale puckers against skin freshly fevered with its touch, and Elias kisses each of them reverently. Rolls his tongue into the dip of Jon's navel, that hidden space of him, secret and hot. Slides his thumbs along the grooves of Jon's ribs, pressing wet kisses into the tender hollows beneath them until Jon is gasping.

“Elias,” he whines, “I - oh, I - ” His breathing is gone harsh and uneven, and tears are gathering in his eyes. He looks overwhelmed and untethered. Elias presses a palm to the center of his chest, making gentle shushing noises. His eyes fix steady on Jon’s, holding his gaze, grounding him in the moment.

“It’s all right,” Elias tells him. “I’m here.”

Jon’s breathing gradually evens out. Tears have seeped out of the corners of his eyes, glistening in his lashes and staining his skin, but he's calmer. He blinks a few times, and exhales long and slow. Elias removes the grounding hand from his chest.

“Intimate touch can be quite - intense. Do you want me to stop?” he asks. Jon gives a shaky laugh and scrubs the heels of his hands over his eyes.

“No,” he says, his voice catching so sweetly on the word. “No.”

Elias takes the washcloth and wets it again, continues bathing Jon’s burning skin. Strokes the cloth down over his thighs and calves, all the way to the soles of his feet. Jon whimpers quietly when Elias’ thumb pushes into the tight arch of his foot, his toes curling. Elias does it again, and is rewarded with another whimper. He massages one foot slowly, deeply, and then the other, until the tendons go loose and relaxed. Elias bends to press a kiss to Jon's ankle, rubs his cheek over the top of Jon’s foot. The skin is unbearably fragile, latticed with veins.

“Elias…” Jon breathes. “God, what are you doing to me?” He sounds blissful, punch drunk, and Elias shivers in pleasure.

“Taking care of you,” he says, hearing his own voice low and rough.

Jon’s skin is still wet where Elias last bathed, dark hair slicked down over his legs. Elias kisses along the length of one slim calf, holding the curve of it in his hands like an idol for worship. Continues on past the knee, kissing wet and open mouthed up the inside of Jon's thigh, salt and heat thick on his tongue. He feels Jon shiver and squirm under his ministrations, bites carefully at the fragile skin. He looks up at Jon along the length of his body, taut and trembling, his eyes dark and bottomless where they meet Elias’. Jon looks halfway between terrified and thrilled, and always, always so profoundly curious.

“My perfect Archivist,” Elias tells him. “My lovely Jonathan.”

Elias mouths another kiss to Jon’s inner leg, noses against the wet, heated skin. Presses his face into the juncture of Jon’s thigh, into the tight crease there, loves the skin with his tongue. Jon’s briefs are sweated through, clinging to his skin, and Elias can smell the sweet, feverish musk of him. He breathes it in deeply, doesn’t try to stop the groan that escapes him.

“Elias…” Jon gasps, lifts his hips to let Elias tug down his briefs, so they tangle around his thighs. His cock is soft and shy, nestled in dark, damp curls. Elias nuzzles against the sleek pelt, inhaling, feeling Jon’s knees tremble around his shoulders.

A full body tremor runs through Jon as Elias draws his cock into his mouth. Takes it to the root, until his nose is pressed to Jon’s abdomen, feeling the little jolts of reflex sparking through the muscle. Elias closes his eyes, riding the wave of desire that almost overwhelms him at the feel of Jon’s cock in his mouth, pliant and fever hot as the rest of him. Holds it there, safe and loved, as it slowly fills, breathing through his nose against the soft skin.

Jon’s breath is coming in little astonished gasps, and he groans when his cock slips out of Elias’ mouth. Whimpers as Elias’ mouth moves down to his balls, bathing them with his tongue, feeling them shift and roll under his ministrations. Elias rubs his cheek gently against them, slick with sweat and his own saliva, and Jon groans. His thighs are trembling and hot, bracketing Elias’ shoulders. His hips buck involuntarily.

"What do you want, Jon?" Elias asks, because this is also important. He presses his tongue hard into the taut muscle of Jon's perineum, and Jon's hips jerk again.

“Please, Elias,” he gasps.

“Yes,” Elias breathes, and draws Jon’s eager cock back into his mouth. It doesn’t take long until Jon’s climax is spilling out of him in little breathless moans, flooding Elias’ mouth with the bitter salt taste of his semen. Elias swallows hungrily and holds Jon’s cock in his mouth, his thumbs rubbing circles into Jon’s hip bones, feeling the little residual aftershocks of his orgasm die away. Holds it there until it softens entirely, and then releases it gently, pressing a kiss to Jon’s quivering abdomen. Jon sighs.

“You did so well, Jon,” Elias tells him, enjoying the tremor that runs through Jon at the praise. “You were perfect.”

He pulls the briefs the rest of the way down Jon’s long legs and drops them to the floor. Uses the now lukewarm washcloth to bathe Jon’s genitals, his inner thighs that are streaked with sweat and saliva. Jon doesn’t say anything, just watches him placidly. His mouth is gone soft, his eyes half closed as he tries to keep them on Elias. By the time Elias drops the washcloth back into the basin, Jon looks utterly boneless and halfway asleep.

Elias touches his neck. The skin is still too warm, but no longer searing, and it is dry against his palm. Even a supernatural fever can be broken, with the right care, and Elias feels the Corruption's weak influence draining away. Jon is just barely meeting his gaze now, eyes hazy and exhausted.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” Elias asks.

“Yes, I - yes.” Jon’s voice is soft and confused, as if he’s already mostly gone.

“Good. Rest, then. You need to be at work tomorrow.”

Elias pulls up the duvet from the end of the bed and tucks it around Jon, who gives a quiet, contented sigh.

“Elias…” he breathes, “I - ”

“I know,” Elias tells him, because of course he does. Jon is his Archivist, Elias knows him as he has never known another person. As nobody else has ever known Jon, ever _could_ know him. It is an overwhelming responsibility, and the deepest privilege of Elias’ life.

He gets up carefully so as not to disturb the bed. Opens a window in the living room to freshen the air, retrieves a statement from his bag and places it on the bedside cabinet. Jon will need it in the morning to help get his strength back. And Elias needs him back at work, so he can enjoy the delightful experience of Jon coming to his office to be cross at him about this, self-righteous and embarrassed all at once. That is how he enjoys Jon best, though this is wonderful too, his lovely Archivist in repose, eyes already beginning to twitch in fearful, glorious dreams.

He'll take the book with him when he leaves, and dispose of it. Or perhaps not. It's an interesting trinket, and there might be some use for it.

Jon mumbles something unintelligible, and Elias smiles, strokes a hand over his hair.

“Sleep well, Jon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [@cuttoothed](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cuttoothed). I like TMA a bit, I guess?


End file.
